Hide Behind October
by Jashi
Summary: Companion piece to "Rope Walker." Meet the bartender of "The Longshanks," a tavern in Tortuga, Romulus Rackham. His half-sister was a pirate, but he had his own adventures. He has a story to tell...it starts on a chilly day in October when he was branded


HIDE BEHIND OCTOBER

by Jashi

N O T E: This is a spin-off of my Pirates of the Caribbean fic "Rope Walker." Its central character is Romulus Rackham, Tades' half-brother, and his bar, The Longshanks. Well, since Romulus is leaving "Rope-Walker" for a good ten chapters or so, and lots of people seemed to like his character and were sorry to see him leave, I've decided to make this lil' fic. For a lot of things to make sense, the reader should read the story "Rope Walker" first. Muchos gracias. 

ONE

I really hate mopping. 

So, of course, it happens to be one of the things I do most. Lots of people spit on the floor of the Longshanks. And its not just spit, no, not by a long shot. They get drunk and spew everywhere, they bleed all over the place during fights, and then more than once I've caught a barmaid and a drunk screwing each other under the table in the back.

Mopping bloody blows.

But even though I can pay somebody else to mop the floors of this tavern now, sometimes I do it myself…more often than not. Mopping brings back very, very old memories of times that I do not wish to forget, but I probably will anyway. Memories are kinda like that, y'know? Real easy to drown whether it be at the bottom of a bottle or in the swirling, soapy waters of a bucket. 

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Splish, splish I shove the mop's head into the bucket, and with a wet _thwap _it's on the floor, washing away grime. It makes long stream of little soapy bubbles.

Aw, to hell with it. I kick the whole bucket over with my foot, and it floods the floor a in turbulent tide of soap and water. 

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Splish, splish, splish. 

I push the mop around, trying to get some cleanliness into the bar. I remember the first time I mopped. 

It was twenty-five years ago, I think. 

In a London poorhouse I lived, along with my sister…well, half-sister…Tades. We had the same dad, but he was one hell of a bastard. He was dead, Tades' mum got hanged, and mine died when she had me. Poor little Rackham orphans. But did anyone care? Not in the slightest. Neither did I, really. I'd never known anything else. 

I mopped the floor. Usually, it was the kitchen floor, thrice a week or so. I remember they made Tades clean the chimney. It wasn't a good place to be, but there was a bit of bread or watery soup everyday, and we had clothes and a roof. It was something…better than being out on the streets, as I learned later in life. 

Streets are so dirty there's no point in mopping them. Only God could wash the dirt off of them, with another world-consuming flood, but he's promised he'll never do that again. Good God. Sit. Stay. Play dead.Good boy. 

He does that very well, you know. It's almost like he's not there. But anyway, that's off the subject. I begin scrubbing a place in the floor where some poor bloke retched the night before. 

Hmmm…it was one day in October when they figgered out our dad was a pirate. Not a swash-bucklin' scallywag like Jack Sparrow…but more…domestic. He owned a merchant's vessel, and often did not sell what others had paid him to, and stuff like that. So, it's a cold day, I was mopping the floor. Some great big bloke came in and grabbed me by the arm. He was with Mrs. Hutchins, the lady who headed the poorhouse. He pulled me out to the doorway, where there was another man waiting. He disappeared inside and came back with Tades. She was covered in soot from head to toe. He must've pulled her straight out of the chimney. Then they grabbed us and pulled us outside, right into the icy streets with melted snow on the curbs. Down to the blacksmith's shop we went, frightened little ten-and-six year-olds. When we got there, they read a quick speech with words so large I could not comprehend them properly…the few words I did know struck fear in me… "pirate," "traitor," "punishment," "children." 

"Ye can't do that!" said Tades incredulously, but I was confused. I don't think Tades understood much more than I did, but it was enough to make her shake.

A man motioned to the blacksmith, and he took a metal pole out of the forge…the head of it was a brand…the letter "P".

I realized what they were gonna do a second before they did it as one man laid my arm out on the table and made me stand still. Tades was yelling and struggling and the other man had a little trouble restraining her. But she was small, and he was quite a large bloke. 

They branded me with the letter "P" on the inside of my wrist, though I'd done nothing. I yelled with the pain, but then the man threw me to the side and they both subdued Tades as they burned her as well. 

They kicked us outside in the cold and said we were not wards of state anymore, skidaddle, skiv off right now before we kill you. Tades jumped up, grabbing me with her, and we scampered off right quick. 

That day in October destroyed our lives…or perhaps recreated them. But it was a slow start on the pathway to hell, I suppose. That day in October destroyed all meaning of life…all we had to do was survive. By destroying all security we had, all the life around us, our lives were set for a destined course. October. The month where summer is buried and storm clouds come out to play.Everything seems to happen then. We hid in October. 

That night we slept in the shadow of the jailhouse, which is a really, really stupid place to sleep when you're branded with the P. We almost got caught the next day. For the next couple of days, we hid in a cab-driver's stable, sleeping deep beneath the straw. After a few days, we left. This was our life for awhile…move, hide, sleep, eat, move, hide, sleep, move, hide, move, hide, hide a little more, then sleep. 

Then of course, Tades got this bloody BRILLIANT idea that turned out all flummoxed in the end. I call it The Spanish Idea. We were hiding by the docks at this point, and it was nearing spring. A ship was leaving for Spain. Spain. A place not so far away, but very different. 

She decided that we should sneak aboard the ship and stow away to leave the country. See, with the "P" we were criminals. We happened to conviniently forget that going to Spain meant we were still criminals. 

But, anyway, we snuck below deck and hid there for a week and a half. We nibbled on stolen hardtack from crates, and Tades told me stories. She used to run errands for Mrs. Hutchins, since my sister was nearing the age of which they turned the children of the poorhouse onto the street. Often, she stopped to hear an old man who sold rags tell stories of the ocean…of sailors and pirates and grand, grand adventure. 

She remembered them, and told them to me.

In Spain, we snuck off the ship again. Holy mother of God, it was nothing like England. They spoke a different language. They looked different. Their clothes were vibrant and the sun was shining. 

But of course, no matter how bright a sun shines, it always disappears when night comes. 

Spain turned out to be the devil's bane. 

The first night we slept in the shadows of an alley. It was warm, and somewhat comfortable. The next day we went deep into the city…to the bad parts of the city…not a wise choice. There were some nasty people down there…two weeks later, while Tades was out stealing food, she got assaulted by a gang. Instead of killing her, they made her join, because Tades was very lightfooted, and of good use to them. 

And so it went.

Me, I went out and begged for food. I was seven. I was cute. People gave me a tiny bits of money, leftover change practically. I went out and got bread…crusts that people had already eaten…I looked at what people threw out…and I ate it. It was sometimes kinda nasty, but I ate it anyway. Better than starving. 

Sometimes I wouldn't see my older sister for days at a time. When I was alone and thinking, I sometimes wondered how I would know she was dead. She pretty much worked every night. She and the _pandilla _snuck into houses late at night and stole things. Tades was the one that went into the rooms where there were people sleeping, or where dogs lay. But, still, she lived. We both lived, and that is the most important part. 

As she and I grew older, I took a job in a tavern sweeping floors and serving ale. The pay was meager, but I got leftover bread. I learned Spanish, and could talk with customers, hear the latest news. I saw Tades once every few days…and the jobs the gang made her do grew more and more dangerous as she grew older. It's why she hardly sleeps now, somehow she learned how to function without sleep for days while working for the gang. This skill was very useful in later life.

Anyway, it was late in the night, I was sleeping in the attic above the bar. There came a sharp rapping sound from my window. I woke up, and saw Tades in the light of the moon.

I opened the window and let her in. She was shaking and pale, her eyes wide with fright. She was covered in blood that was not hers.

"They're dead…all dead…"

The _pandilla _was dead after being ambushed by soldiers. Tades had escaped by walking across a clothesline from one building to the next. 

I throw the mop in the bucket and carry it to the backroom. The Longshanks is a bit wet, but pretty clean. The customers won't care. Let's see how clean I can keep the floor tonight.

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To be continued…


End file.
